What a weekend, dear reader. And I don’t mean that in a good way. It’ll have to be written into the history books as The Great Umbrella Massacre of 2010.

My own, newly purchased brolly barely withstood a day before snapping. I won’t have to put it down just yet, but it’s limping, and that kind of umbrella doesn’t have long. Still, it fared better than some of it’s brothers and sisters.

I should warn you now, if you have a weak stomach for this sort of thing, you may want to look away.

I guess this is the time of year when spring starts to wrestle with winter. March is usually described as some kind of awful lamby-lion hybrid, it’s recessive and dominant genes leaving a trail of destruction in their path as they duke it out across the city. I’d say that this is an accurate description.

Naturally, I didn’t venture out much. But I did at least get to survey some of the carnage afterward; and I was mortified at what I saw:

To be cast off so ingloriously, what a horrible waste. And the indignities didn’t stop there; umbrellas littered the streets for some time afterward, even as the winds were subsiding and life was returning to normal:

The M.U. should be ashamed.

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I’ve been pounding away at the keyboard all day, dear reader, and I’m feeling comfortably frazzled. And I’m not even ashamed of what I accomplished today. The portfolio has started to co-operate and it’s doing some very nice things. One more piece and she’s ready for prime-time. I’ll have to juggle a few things tomorrow, some social engagements and such, so I’ll be keeping it short and sweet tonight. I do hope you understand. Not that I’d have anything else for you if you didn’t though. :)

Two things managed to break my bubble of steely concentration today: the weather was starkly beautiful again —

(Although this evening does smell an awful lot like rain. Kind of a mild, mildewy, wet dog smell.)

— and I’m rather pleased about this second one, I finally managed to capture my arch-nemesis! At least from behind. At least something.

Crafty crafty “organization” named Ornge Lift. Not Orange, Ornge. As in, Evl.They fly their aircraft around Ontario taking critically ill people to hospitals. Basically flying paramedics (so they get to do whatever they want).

They also airlift to hospitals downtown using these orange helicopters and landing on the roofs of places like St. Michael’s. St. Mike’s happens to be quite close to where I live, a few blocks maybe, and apparently the approach path is directly over my flat.

In the winter I hardly notice. But with the weather lately I’ve been keeping the windows open and “THUP THUP THUP THUP THUP THUP THUP THUP THUp THup Thup thup up p p p”. It’s an experience. Sometimes, I swear, that thing hovers over my street just for shits and giggles. Like, aren’t there people that need saving or something?

Haven’t caught sight of the pilot yet, but one day … one day …

Well, it’s happened. I’m getting antsy.

I was watching Breakfast Television this morning to see if Dina Pugliese would entice me into a passionate new day (and for the weather report). She didn’t; she’s just so dry (and it’s supposed to start raining tomorrow).  The over-boiled supposed-to-be-soft-boiled egg was digesting in my stomach, as was the thick, crunchy, crusty hunk of Vienna Rye (I buy it for a reason!) I was up early again and was feeling the need to get inspired. Portfolio’s a waitin’

Dina obviously wouldn’t do it for me so I decided to kill a few birds with one stone: head outside for a walk, get some inspiration, and take a few photos of it. I firmly believe that to solve a problem it’s best to walk away from it; just the excuse I needed.

My first thought when I hit Yonge-Dundas Square was to make the portfolio like a building. Each floor would house a project I’d worked on that you could fly into via the magic of Adobe Flash. The Woo building (I’m sure it has another name — but is it as catchy?), seemed like a suitable candidate. Lots of windows and spinny, twirly, moving things. Plus, I remember the Woo website being somewhat slick – the location must’ve worked for them.

Except that it’s been done, like, a million and one times already.  Every agency and creative somethingorother showcase their loft, or their building, or some nearby space on their web pages.

Okay, how about something like a construction site then?

I could have the shovels, umm, shoveling content. And the dump trucks … dumping … stuff. Hmmm.

That idea had two unfortunate connotations. First, the connection between trucks, dumping, and the intertubes. Not sure if that’s the image I want to give off. Second, this thing:

Ultra-cheese since it first appeared in a Netscape window. I haven’t used Netscape since I don’t even know when.

So that pretty much put an end to the construction idea.

For some reason, fire trucks were racing along Yonge Street the whole morning. I didn’t see a single emergency (no smoke or stretchers), but they did spark off an idea.

Maybe I’d been over thinking it. Maybe I could just use one complex, rotating, 3D object in the middle of a pristine white web page. The object could be something like a fire truck, the Swiss Army knife of vehicles. Or a Swiss Army knife. I imagined it would be kind fun to poke and prod this thing on screen, having each prodable doohickey act as an activator to some portfolio piece that would pop up beside it.

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To be perfectly honest, there’s nothing I enjoy more than having someone tell me how to operate my own equipment. I mean, a suggestion is one thing. That I don’t mind at all. It doesn’t make any presumptions. But when that short, older man (wearing a Yankees cap!) told me, “you can’t shoot directly into the sun, son”, I could scarcely contain my rage.

I took him to the nearby corner of Yonge-Dundas Square and I showed him a few things.

“You see, sucker”, I thought to myself. “There’s enough ambient light on the sidewalk”, now out-loud, “to illuminate subjects from the front. They’re kind of shadowy, but I think that’s kinda cool. All thanks to this iContrast thingie.”

“Ah!”, he marvelled. “What camera is this? I have an EOS Rebel XSi at home. Is that a Rebel too?”

“No”, I replied, “it’s a … umm …”. I’d forgotten the name. Flipped it over. “Oh, yeah, a Powershot … SX 10 … IS. Fixed lens (can’t stick another lens on there) … but what a lens!”

I went on to extole the virtues of the camera and its lens while flipping through the other photos.

“So, it has all the same software?”

What an odd question.

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It’s been a helluva few days around here, dear reader. I’ve been cleaning the flat, apologizing to Ollie, and getting some stuff for my fridge. That last part I was once again pleased to be able to do at St. Lawrence Market There really is great stuff there that I haven’t seen anywhere else around town, and the neighbourhood locals are unparalleled. The one old lady I bumped into this time happened to be buying a loaf of bread from Future Bakery. I lucked out (one Vienna Rye still left!), and she seemed pleased / perplexed with her purchase.

The rest of this story I’ll narrate around the walk that I took shortly after that conversation. That talk propelled me into the walk, as it were. I pulled the shopping cart behind me the whole way (surprisingly, pears: unharmed), along Wellington Street. Just headed directly west. And  don’t know about you, but that’s one sexy street. Even just the way it begins!

The old city basically starts to spread itself open here. Wellington is an old-time street, it’s near enough to the lake to belong to the original town, I figure, plus there are enough old buildings left along it to suggest the same thing.

I love walking down here in the late afternoon; with the sun almost equally aligned between the pillars; it’s über-dramatic.

But I was discussing the old lady, wasn’t I? Right.

So, as we were waiting to pay for our loaves, she mouthed something imperceptibly. She’d done the same thing earlier when she saw me helping myself to the few bagged breads remaining on top of the display case (they’re loosely cordoned). She held up her own and said something. I’m not sure if she was proud of her ability to have heaved her shriveled frame up that case to retrieve her own bread, or if she had been finger-wagged by the staff for the same offense. Or both. Her face was an uncertain mix of smiling and frowning. At the same time. And she spoke so softly, I couldn’t make out anything she was saying.

It was a bit unsettling.

I thought she’d left by the time I’d finished pawing the merchandise, but she suddenly reappeared at the cash counter around the corner. Holy shit!

“You know zat voman? Zat funny vun? Wis ze sree uzer guys?”

This time, I guess, she’d cleared her throat or something, and was finally able to speak. Okay, but seriously, what an awkward opener? Zat woman? My mind jumped to Catherine O’Hara when she’d been on SCTV. But ze sree uzer guys? I’m pretty sure there were more than sree guys on SCTV at that time.

That’s where my thought train made its last stop. I was just left standing in the billowing steam at the station with a blank expression on my face.

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…continued from previous part.

You know, dear reader, the most aggravating thing about this whole affair lately has been that it got me off kilter. Weren’t we talking about Regent Park or something? Dang.

Unfortunately that seems like a lifetime ago now. And, also unfortunately, I’ve recently very much enjoyed re-connecting with the city again (i.e. more frickin’ pictures). So I’m going to pull some academia out of my butt here and am calling this final installment a “photo essay”. Haha! Wicked. Whoever thought of that one gets a high-five from me!

This implies there will be no words. *snicker*

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Wow. I have to be honest, dear reader, I wasn’t expecting the continuing vitriol that I received on Friday when I handed over my resignation. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be happy, but not that. I offered to come back as a contractor in the nicest way I could muster and was told, side-mouth, as jerkwad was walking away from me that “no, that won’t be happening”. I’m absolutely certain that that wasn’t a rational reaction, I think he’d already invested his whole heart into me becoming his personal, absolutely free, work-till-you-drop lap dog. I must’ve really hurt his feelings. :(

I guess you know the story by now, crazy project, crazy hours, and at the end they basically gave me the middle finger for even suggesting that I take some time off. I was “expected” to keep that up for another two months, minimum. After my probationary period, then, maybe, a few days off. What about the time off that the law allows for workers to rest so, you know, we don’t die and stuff? Those came off my vacation days. And again, wasn’t I lucky that they granted me such privileges – what an asshole I was for fucking them over like this. Overtime pay or lieu time?! HOW DARE I?!

When I think about it, I suppose thinking that they’d at least try to consider our plight was optimistic, but I’d hoped that by reminding them of their obligations as employers, under the law, they’d at least pacify me and send me on my way. But no, jerky to the very bitter end.

So I’m filing a complaint with the Ministry of Labour. It’s just not cool to treat people that way, legally or otherwise.

That’s me and a gentleman I met at the Human Rights complaints office. Turned out this wasn’t the office I wanted, they deal mostly with discrimination and everyone at my former employer is treated equally shabbily. I guess my complaint is common enough that the government now conducts most of its business online, so my trip was entirely unnecessary. But it was a nice day and I’d just quit the sweatshop (really, dictionary definition), so why the heck not?

The gentleman accompanying me had a compelling case – former manager in a well-known company, been there for a while, forced out by a higher-up who later turned out to be a bit of a scoundrel. The details certainly seemed to fit and sounded honest, and he claimed to have documented every step of the story. I don’t know if he’ll get the damages he’s asking for, but some of the lower sums he was tossing out (and that the lawyers had been suggesting), seem more likely. But I only know as much about the law as I need to, so that’s that analysis for you.

After our chat we strolled to nearby Nathan Phillips Square where the Paralympic torch relay was being held:

No idea what the point of this was supposed to be but I found it kind of funny that, apparently, you’re allowed to subdivide the flame – there was definitely more than one torch running the track:

I’m thinking that, should my funds start running low, maybe I’ll get into the Olympic flame racket. “No, honest, it came off the Olympic torch. You can even use it to start campfires – Olympic campfires! Think of how good those marshmallows’ll taste.”

In the meantime, though, I’m really averse to being an employee again. I mean, sometimes managers are just boobs, but sometimes they’re absolute tyrants. Either way, I have a really hard time buying what they’re selling. So, here I am on my first free Saturday since early February, jobless, nothing lined up and no feelers out (and no richer off for the experience, let me tell you!). I can honestly say I’ve never been in this position before. Bit scary. Also a bit exhilarating – I do pretty good work under pressure, implying I’ve got about month of layabout time before things start to get serious. But I tend to get antsy after about three days, so I don’t expect I’ll be pushing that envelope very much. Besides, my last fortune cookie said, “You will become an accomplished writer” (undoubtedly referring to TCL) – how can you argue with that?

Eighteen hours on. Two hours of sleep (well, I had four until I had to get up again, but it was hard to turn off), then another twelve. You may wonder if the management believes it’s that important. Well, much to their credit, they’re there before I get there and often well after I leave. So I think they do and I’m trying to help ‘em out. But coding is mostly undivided concentration. That’s tough on the ole noggin’

I really wasn’t planning on writing about work but that’s been my experience for almost two weeks now. That and dark haze and memories of an apartment and Oliver. Okay, I stretch a bit, but feel I’ve been making a pretty fucking honest effort and have been in that seat more than not. And the part I’m working on is somewhat big and complex – it’s a good chunk of the overall effort. I also stitched together everyone else’s pieces. And patched them up where they had holes or got unstitched somehow, or by someone. Oy vey!

But the end result will be pretty nice, I believe. Actually, it’s pretty close now. Down to the wire. I ended up re-writing the core engine at the last minute to make it play better (it’s a game), and I was actually enjoying testing it. Good sign.

Here’s a Haiku to sum it up:

I’m staying afloat.

It’s too bad I can’t segue.

For you, here’s a boat.

This is Captain John’s, a ship-borne restaurant harboured at the absolute foot of Yonge Street. The M.S. Jadran is pretty much a sitting hulk. There is some doubt about whether or not she can be moved without something falling off. Passengers getting impaled on shards of spiky, twisted hull metal would be bad for business. They’d never pass the health inspection after that!

The selling price recently dropped from $1.5 million to $1.1. The Toronto Star took that to mean that John Letnik, the guy who’s trying to sell her, is getting more desperate. I don’t know if I believe that.

Competition around town is certainly heating up. I can attest to the fact that literally from any street corner in downtown Toronto, you will see a large new building under construction when you look in the cardinal directions. There are parts of town where entire skylines are going up.

The resident boat-restaurant business is, I believe, somewhat of a niche market. Selling the Jadran will probably take some time and, I sincerely hope, result in a very public string of colourful characters who want to make the boat into everything from a three-ring circus to a performing art piece. It’ll take a hundred restaurants at the bases of nearby towers to realize what a great thing this ship could be, even with all her baggage. Plus, all those new buildings will house hungry mouths. And I had a gander at the lunch menu (a hand-folded photocopy) — $7.95 for most of their maritime delights.

What a catch!

Okay, and think you and I both know, dear reader, why this has to end for today. It’s gone too far.

…continued from previous part.

The “trial by fire”, as my manager put it, continues. This is the eighth straight day of 12-hours-per-day, no-breaks keyboard bashing and code-slinging. Sheer exhaustion set in about two days ago. The deadline looms, I get it — I just better get a few days off after this is all over!

In the meantime, however, the small pocket of wit I had stored at the back of my brain was used up about four days ago. I hope you bear with me through this challenging time, dear reader. It’s hard enough to just string a sentence together let alone something coherent. At least there are some photos to fill in the gibberish!

Plus, thankfully, Regent Park has a history that I can regurgitate to pretend like I’m saying something meaningful :) For example, after a little digging around I learned that Regent Park was considered a slum in the heart of Cabbagetown well before it was destined for the projects. In other words, I don’t think the buildings necessarily made it what it is. But I don’t think they helped.

There, didn’t that sound meaningful? Haha … I can’t even tell anymore!

Anystars, the northern part of Regent Park was built in the early fifties, the southern nearly a decade later. Apparently the guy who designed the southern towers won an award. From the air, I guess, they’re nicely arranged. On the ground though, they just don’t seem terribly people-friendly.

Oh don’t get me wrong, the place has “fascinating history” written all over it, even if that history isn’t necessarily all happy. Why the heck else would I go there? I already have enough crack at home.

There are some unusual aspects to the place that give it a little more fat around the jowl; you know — character. It is, after all, easy to dismiss it as that place you avoid at night, but that’s way too simplistic.

The majority of Regent Park is composed of mostly poor Asian people who’ve been living there for decades, most of them with kids. The predominant ethnic group is Chinese. Which pretty much proves that the Chinese are troublemakers. But if you don’t buy that, it at least shows that the problems that Regent Park has aren’t necessarily caused by one group or another.

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Wow, I sure am being put through the paces these days. Big client. Big deadlines. No weekend :( Gonna be pounding the keyboard hard, so I’ll keep it brief and choppy. But luckily, that’s probably the best style to adopt for what’s coming up.

Also, I luckily managed to string that U of T series along for a bit, and even more luckily, the this week’s stuff is considerably less soppy: Regent Park!

It all started with a great documentary called Invisible City that I saw on TVO last Sunday.

In it I learned all sorts of interesting things, like Regent Park is Canada’s original housing project. And much like many of it’s American cousins, this one went south. You know, the usual stuff; drugs, violence, poverty, all mushed together in a gooey mess. There’s a northern part, made up of short and brutish red brick buildings facing each other antagonistically, and a southern part consisting of a cluster of tall, low-privacy, high-density apartments ringed by run-down townhouses.

What struck me as sad about the documentary, though, is that the two kids are already feeling a bit nostalgic for the place, both because of the course of their lives and, I suspect, because the neighbourhood’s being torn down. The new buildings being put up contain starter condos — around $200 Gs. That’s a very reasonable price for a downtown location and is a much more affordable starter loan. As shocking as this may sound, I think the city actually did something right there – it seems to make sense.

Unfortunately, it also means that Regent Park may be disappearing. I mean, it’ll be a while yet, but the revitalization is slated for completion around 2015. And, once again, bizarre as this may seem, I believe that the project is mostly on schedule. Weird, right? Maybe it’s because this is my homegirl’s ward.

In any event, shortly after watching the documentary I decided I had to see it for myself. I only had to walk a few blocks. I know! All this time and I’ve never been!

Well, I went, and I got a little panorama-happy. At least at the beginning — kept me in a natural three-sixty motion. Smart! But I relaxed eventually, though the place continued to be unpleasant. In the middle of February, not a place to bring your valentine. Well, maybe the right one ;)

Anyhow, the buildings may look a bit warped, but at least you’ll have context. But, because of so much context, I humbly request your patience when you click on the pics -– they’re loading, they’re just big. Now’s the time to get that refreshment you’ve been thinking about. Go ahead, it’s alright, that photo won’t go nowhere :)

Also, I’d recommend turning on full-screen mode (usually under the “View” menu at the top – or try hitting the F11 key). Stick your schnoz into the monitor to complete the effect. Finally, because the photos will probably take up more than your whole window, you should probably know how to get back here :D You have a few options:

1) Hit the ESC key. Works for me, probably will for you :)
2) Use the scroll bars, or the arrow keys, to scroll to the lower-right corner of the photo (down and right). Just below that is the close button.
3) Use the scroll bars, or the arrow keys, to scroll above or below the photo. Then just click anywhere on the blog.

And please enjoy your visit!

Continued in next part…